


and the skies are not cloudy all day

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley and Aziraphale visit a friendly desert community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the skies are not cloudy all day

**Author's Note:**

> I think - in all my GO dabbling over the years - this is my first bonafide crossover! What fun it is to write.
> 
> Note: reflects up-to-date(ish) _Welcome to Night Vale_ canon and post-canon _Good Omens_ meanderings.

On time departure; ample selection of Clint Eastwood films on the in-flight entertainment system; baggage swinging round the carousel intact and unmussed: uncannily, everything was going to plan. But that didn't mean it wasn't worth stretching the universe's patience a smidgen more.

Crowley smiled beatifically at the man behind the rental car desk. "Yes. We do have a reservation."

"Great." The man grimaced. And then, looking up from his computer screen: "Mister… Ah. Crowley. Yes, there it is, prepaid in full. We have you down for a standard vehicle. Three days. Will you be needing insurance?"

"Nope. It just so happens I've brought along my guardian angel."

The angel in question was busy making a library for himself at the tourist information kiosk. He paused to give Crowley a sharp look over the top of a neon pamphlet marked _Experience in Glorious Real Life! The Ghost Towns of Southern Nevada_.

Crowley made a mental note to confiscate those paisley Bermuda shorts—and maybe the polo and tatty straw hat as well. There was nothing quite like having a fresh canvas to work with, and the angel was as fresh as—

"Great," the man said again. He thumped a sheaf of papers on the countertop and held out a leaky biro. "I'll just need your signature. My associate Janice will be happy to meet you outside with the keys."

But Janice wasn't happy. She was in fact as far from happy – and as close to head-throbbingly _distraught_ – as it was in fact possible to be, even on a day in which she'd already spilled coffee on herself, got a run in her hose, and been overheard by her boss saying, "That moron wouldn't know how to tie his shoes if it wasn't for me," when referring to the very same.

Receiving a rental order for the factory-condition 1964 Aston Martin DB5 that shouldn't have been on her lot but also pointedly _was_ made her want to just give up this whole Las Vegas lark and move back to Paducah to live with her mother.

Crowley extended his palm, and after a long pause, Janice handed over the keys. "Cheers." The car glinted in the midmorning sun like the ninth bloody wonder of the modern world. Yes, it was certainly worth stretching the universe's patience now and then.

*

"What did you say this place is called?" asked Aziraphale, running a finger back and forth across the well-creased map.

"Night Vale," said Crowley. "But you're not going to find it on there—it's too—" He hesitated. His orders from Hell been so imprecise that he suspected even _they_ couldn't pinpoint the town's exact location. "I think its temporal boundaries are somewhat... negotiable."

"Hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

"Are you certain this isn't all some sort of—I don't know… elaborate hoax? Surely there might be any number of your _American_ counterparts available to run such an errand."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Maybe Dagon thought I was the best guy for the job," he said, but more snippily than he intended. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I mean, Gabriel sends _you_ out to do fieldwork when the mood strikes him. Or perhaps you reckon there was someone else who could've handled that spate of divine ecstasy in the Rhine Valley last year?"

Aziraphale patted Crowley's thigh and gave him a reassuring smile. "Yes. I do," he said. "But who in his right mind would turn down an all-expense paid vacation to one of the world's most renowned winemaking regions?"

"And the Mojave Desert?"

"Er," said Aziraphale, glancing out the window at the vast, dusty expanse of grey and brown and red earth that rolled on around them. He bit his lip, crestfallen. "It _is_ a bit… Dry."

"Tell you what." Crowley pressed his hand to Aziraphale's, which was still resting comfortably on his leg. "Once we're done with this whole 'rogue demon interception' business we can go back to Vegas and take in a magic show. Let's see if you can't pick up a thing or two from the pros."

"My dear boy, you do know how to strike a bargain."

*

Six hours later, they were still driving. Aziraphale had exhausted his supply local trivia gleaned from the pamphlets and graduated to Wildean anecdotes, followed by a tunelessly hummed rendition of what that could likely be blamed on Gilbert and Sullivan. And then after a while, liltingly: "'I see a little silhouetto of a man. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the fandango?'"

Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale stared back.

"What?" said Crowley.

"Yes?"

"Where in the world did you learn that?"

"On the overhead at Tesco. Please do give me _some_ credit, Crowley."

A long moment passed before Crowley returned: "'Thunderbolt and lightning – very, very frightening me.'"

"'Gallileo!'"

"'Gallileo, Gallileo Figaro.'"

And then nothing. Crowley turned back to Aziraphale.

"Tesco didn't have my digestives in stock, so I left." Aziraphale shrugged and leaned forward to fiddle with the radio console. The roar of white noise filled the car.

"I doubt you'll pick anything up this far from—"

_…expected to resume by the end of the week. Former Night Vale community radio intern and current Mayor Dana Cardinal could not be reached for comment as she is spending a well-earned long weekend at the Desert Otherworld Cabana Beach RelaxoSphere, Presented by StrexCorp._

_However, former Mayor and current Director of Emergency Press Conferences Pamela Winchell retorted with the following: "Each household has been bequeathed a fly – order Diptera, family Tabanidae for you bug nerds – that has been pre-loaded with a particularly volatile strain of the equine infectious anaemia virus by local barista and amateur entomologist Esteban Drake. Use these flies to monitor the whereabouts of your…"_

"—civilization," Crowley finished. Where a moment ago there was nothing; a moment ago: endless desert giving way to a glimmer on the horizon that might at any other time have been dismissed as a mirage but here was indeed the sprawling outskirts of a small city.

And then, on a tattered highway sign:

__**NIGHT VALE          18 MI  
~~DESERT BLUFFS     34 MI~~**_ _


End file.
